Last Voice: A Concerto
by Tabby X
Summary: CSI One Greg Sanders has a secret. Old. Inaccurate.
1. Adagio

A/N: Let's see… I'm going to be perfectly serious and just say that I don't own CSI or its characters. This story is supposed to be my idea of what could happen in the fourth season. Maybe. I don't know. We'll see. 

And… a _concerto_ is a musical composition written for a solo instrument – the soloist plays the melody while the rest of the orchestra plays accompaniment. _Adagio_ is a slow tempo – restful and at ease. 

This story is dedicated to the Lindseys I know, because they're all crazy on the outside and deep thinkers on the inside. 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
1: Adagio 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

"Gregory Sanders, CSI One. Life is good sometimes, ya know, Miki?" 

Miki did something that looked suspiciously like rolling her eyes. 

"Yeah, I know I've been telling you about it every day for the last four months. Three and a half, really, but it rounds up." 

She turned her attention to a dead spider that I had squished (I made a mental note to remember to clean up the guts later), showing me that I was _infinitely_ less interesting than an arachnid smeared across the bathroom wall. 

I squeezed a little more gel onto my hand and put the finishing touches on my hair. 

Miki turned and sauntered out of the room. 

"Fine then, don't answer, I don't care." 

I adjusted my completely obnoxious Hawaiian shirt (blue with palm trees and flamingos). Too bad I had to cover my shirts up with the standard CSI jacket. Oh well. Nothing's perfect. I mean, it was no worse than my old lab coat. 

I opened the door so I could continue to talk with Miki while I brushed my teeth. 

"I hate the flavor of toothpaste," I complained through the foam. "You know what else I hate? I hate telling people about my 'mornings.' I have no mornings – I get off work in the morning. My 'mornings' are in the evening. No one ever seems to get that." 

Miki ignored me. That's how she says a lot of things – like if she walks away, she's either mad, upset or depressed. If she glances at me first, she's playing hard to get. If she just ignores me, she's disinterested or disgusted. 

This would fit in that last category. 

"Okay, so, you don't care. Fine then. You know, Grissom said I had completed enough of the training to take a homicide case." 

One of Miki's ears twitched. She likes to hear about my job, and always reacts when I tell her about the crimes. I think, if she were human, she'd have to be a criminalist, too. 

"I might catch a murderer," I said in a singsong voice. 

"Mrrrw," Miki replied, her whiskers bristling under the pair of bright blue eyes that turned toward me. The little half-Siamese cat always gets a weird thrill when I say things like that. I'm convinced she knows exactly what I mean. 

I glanced at the clock. "Shift starts in twenty minutes, Mik. I gotta go." 

Miki made an indignant meowing noise, glancing toward the small kitchen. 

"Oh, right," I laughed, crossing the room to the counter and filling her dish with dry cat food, adding several drops of medication. Supplements to treat an infection she'd recently caught – a normal cat wouldn't have needed them. But Miki is FIV (feline immunodeficiency virus) positive. She's like me. 

That's why I adopted her. No one wants you when there's something wrong with you. 

Well, that's not completely true. Either everyone does, or everyone doesn't. But those that do will change their minds soon, anyway. 

"I'll see you earlier," I told her, setting the bowl on the linoleum. It's something I always say – later doesn't really apply on a nightshift. 

I grinned as I left and locked my apartment, dropping one key into my pocket and pulling out another. I don't use keyrings – I figure that if I loose one with them separate I only loose one, not all of them. Besides, "all" only encompasses two. 

I picked up my newspaper, stuffing it under my arm since I was too lazy to open my door again. 

"Hello, Greggo," called one of my neighbors. 

"Hey, Maria." 

"You didn't carry the garbage all the way to the curb again." 

"Oops. Sorry. It just slips my mind sometimes—" 

"Si, si, sure. Don't worry about it." 

I smiled again and pushed open the big doors leading to the stairwell. 

"Hello, Mr. Sanders," said a slick businessman, passing me in the opposite direction, not looking up from his Wall Street Journal. 

"Yo, Mr. Jones." 

I left the building at the bottom of the second flight of stairs. The night air was cool and there didn't seem to be too many people around. 

I walked unperturbed to my car – it's not like I live in a bad part of the city or anything – getting my second key ready. I hoped the traffic wasn't too bad tonight. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: Hmm… hmm… hmm… I have nothing to saaaaaaay… 


	2. Prima Volta

A/N: Don't own 'em… wish I did… especially Greg… _prima_ volta means "first time." It's usually used to indicate something different about the first time a part of a musical composition is played. It is repeated after that at least once. 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
2: Prima Volta 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

Up until that night, the only time I had really been involved with blood, it had been in small amounts and in small vials. Well, maybe not _always_ small amounts – small compared to this. 

This was the last night I felt at all at ease walking to and from my car. It was the last night I was just a little lab tech at heart. 

It was a bludgeoning case. 

Grissom had warned me. "It'll be bad, Greg. Maybe you should wait until something less bloody comes along, like a nice little poisoning or maybe a head shot." 

Okay, maybe that's not _exactly_ what he said. But it was the basic drift. After all, Gris would never be that blunt. 

I'd insisted. "I can take it. I stayed through that whole autopsy last week, and I helped Sara on a little spatter for practice." 

Ha. 

Amount makes a freaking big difference in how bad blood is. 

Catherine and I ducked under the yellow police tape. Brass and another officer stood nearby, but neither had seen us yet. 

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and ended up gagging on the sudden stench. 

Blood. Waste. Decomposing corpse. 

I choked and suppressed the bile that had begun migrating up my esophagus. Catherine turned back to me 

"Are you sure you can handle this?" 

I waved it off and swallowed. Yeah, I could handle it. Maybe. 

As bad as that was, it was about to get a lot worse. 

Catherine pulled a cloth out of her coat pocket and held it over her nose. I don't know if it because of the actual smell or to make me feel better, but either way I did the same. 

We entered the alley. 

There was the vic. It was a young woman, with dyed red hair. Or maybe it was just full of blood. 

Blood. 

It was everywhere. _Everywhere_. 

Someone had beaten the life out of her, and that life was splashed across the cement – from countless scrapes and contusions – finally draining into a brown-red-black pool under her body. 

It was like a painting. That's the only way I can describe it – like strokes and spatters of red paints. Like the killer was some sort of perverted artist. 

I tried to swallow, but nothing got past the lump that had formed in my throat. 

On a happy note, that met my stomach contents couldn't escape, either. 

Or so I thought. 

Catherine glanced at me. I was probably looking a little green – forget that, I probably looked like a lime. 

"Greg, go, now," she ordered. I obeyed – and was exceedingly grateful there were no onlookers at this time of night. I prefer puking in peace. 

I lost my entire dinner. Chinese isn't nearly as good the second time around, and the first had been too greasy as it was. Heaved dryly a couple more times for good measure. Unfortunately, memories can't be thrown up. And the image of that crime scene was laser imprinted on my brain. 

I pushed myself up onto my knees. Catherine was there, one hand on my arm and the other gently moving in a circle between my shoulder blades, muttering words that were oddly soothing at the moment. No wonder she was a mother. 

I wiped my mouth. "I'm sorry…" 

"It's okay. That happens. Damn, Grissom never should have out you on this case—" 

"No. No, no, he didn't want to, I did. I don't think he knew…" I looked up at Catherine pathetically. Swallowed hard, trying to ignore the bile taste in my mouth. 

I tried several times to talk. 

"It's part of the job," she said soothingly. "Every time you see a crime scene, every time you deal with it, it's like… it's…" 

"Like part of you dies?" I filled in weakly. 

"Yeah. And eventually, there's nothing left to die, and that's when investigators start running down. When you can't feel for the victim anymore. But somewhere in between you and that…" Catherine shook her head. "Well, that's where the rest of us fall. Those that take it. You'll get there. You get tough enough that you can take it." 

My breathing started to slow. 

"Why… Why do we do this?" 

Catherine thought for a moment. 

"Why do you?" I rephrased. 

"Me? Well… I guess I was sick of people pushing me around. Telling me what I could and couldn't do." She smiled slightly. "I guess I wanted to prove them wrong. Show that I was good for more than getting high and taking my clothes off." 

I felt a smile tug at my lips. 

"And puzzles. I love puzzles. I once told – told Gribbs that solving a case was like being 'King Kong on cocaine.' And it is. It's my rush. My booze, speed, and sex." 

"It's less destructive that any of that." 

"In some ways. And I can face Lindsay knowing I've put away a killer." 

_And not with the rest,_ I finished mentally. 

"You're right. Let's go. I can do it." 

I picked up the cloth that I'd tossed aside. 

Catherine nodded. "There's a bottle of water in the car you can wash your mouth out with. Just try with the photos for right now, okay?" 

I nodded. 

I could take it. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: Hmm, I've been planning that aaaaall day. I enjoyed writing it. Maybe it's Catherine – I think she's a very cool character – or maybe it's vomit. Something about vomit really gets my creative juices flowing. Maybe it's because there's so many ways to say it… puke, vomit, barf, throw up, hurl, loose your lunch, toss your cookies, toilet tango, Technicolor yawn. How poetic. 


	3. Forzando

A/N: You know what? I started driver's ed today. My fellow Michiganders might wanna watch out next time they're on the road… Oh, right, CSI, okay. Don't own it (although Abbie is an original character). _Forzando_ is a sudden, forcing accent. There should be a couple in here. Maybe. 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
3: Forzando 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

I entered my lab. 

It was weird – even after four months (okay, three and a half), I still thought of it as _my_ lab. I always felt like I was home when I walked through those doors. 

Well, more or less. There wasn't anything left of the explosion – it had been rebuilt, with replacements for most of the destroyed equipment already in place. A couple were still on the way, but other than that it looked much the same as before. I could almost forget that I'd almost been killed there. 

But then again, I thought I'd made my peace with death, too. 

"Hey, Greg." 

I glanced up from my file at the speaker – Abbie Talbot, a blonde-haired blue-eyed young lab tech. A flirty young lab tech. 

A flirty-with-me young lab tech. 

"Hi, Abbie. I need—" 

"_Gre-e-eg_. Are you _blind_?" she said, sounding like a whining little girl. I could envision her stomping her foot in frustration. 

I looked up again. The CSI job must have really been getting to me – it took about five and a half seconds for me to notice her shirt. It was purple. With pink trim. And saying it was "snug" was like saying the Grand Canyon was a pothole. 

Let's just say it didn't leave much to the imagination. 

"Oh, umm…" I could practically feel the testosterone seeping into my brain. "Nice, umm, shirt." 

Her eyebrows went up. My gaze flickered involuntarily and I cleared my throat, took a breath and trained my eyes pointedly back on her face. 

She got a slightly pouty look. "You're turning into Grissom, you know. He gets like that when Sara's around, but he hides it better. So. Okay, come on, what do you want me to process?" 

I swallowed. Yup, testosterone. It was practically oozing out my ears. 

"Just a few swabs from our crime scene," I said, handing over the evidence boxes. 

"A _few_?" Abbie looked inside the first one. "A few _hundred_, maybe." 

"The voice of experience: get started as soon as possible." 

Then, still very carefully averting my gaze, I charged out of the lab. 

Amazing how one can want to throw up equally at a crime scene and after being hit on by a hot little technician. 

Too bad, I told myself. _No pity party, now. It's your choice, you know._

That made me snort. What choice did I really have? 

Once I was far enough away, I sighed and reopened the manila folder. All the paperwork was there except for the photos (still being developed, thank God) and the autopsy report, which was where I was headed. 

Yippee. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

"You don't have to do this." 

"Yeah I do." 

I stubbornly pulled on a glove. It snapped over my shaking hand. 

My knees were weak and I wanted to vomit yet again. 

Is it safe to say I was scared? 

Oh yeah. 

But I was not going to pull another stunt like I had earlier. 

Dr. Al Robbins was already in the autopsy room. The vic was on the table. Some of the blood had been removed, so it wasn't nearly as horrible as before. The lack of the dark alley helped, too. Still slightly decomposed, and covered in bloodless cuts, bruises and scrapes. And her hair, was, indeed, dyed. 

I kept my distance. 

Catherine approached. "Hey, what's up?" 

"Plaster ceiling and incandescent lights. Okay, your vic was definitely beaten. It appears all the wounds were made my the same weapon – something straight, but with a sharp end." 

"Yeah, we found some potential murder weapons at the scene," I said, trying not to think about it – everything had blood on it. Nothing was ruled out. 

"But that wasn't that killed her." 

I blinked. "What?" 

Just seeing the _scene_ had almost killed me. 

"Manual strangulation," Doc said, pointing out the hand-shaped bruises pressed over the vic's throat. 

"Manual?" Catherine repeated. "That usually indicates a crime of passion." 

I shuddered slightly. 

"Sexual assault?" 

"Not assault, maybe. In fact, she was pregnant." 

I snapped up. "No way." 

"Yes, way. Ten weeks or so. And if it wasn't for that, I'd be standing here telling you it looked like she hadn't had intercourse that recently. Judging by the lack of any scarring or tearing, I'd almost tell you she was a virgin. I'd almost go so far as to say she'd never had a pelvic exam." 

"Except…" Catherine shook her head. "Hymen?" 

"Ruptured, but that doesn't mean as much as most people think. It happens easily just with normal, everyday activity – sports, for instance." 

I nodded. "I know, Doc, I took sex ed." 

Catherine thought a moment. "Okay, we know she was killed about four days ago. We can also guess that it was at night, if no one heard this going on. The call was an anonymous tip, so we don't have anywhere to start with that." 

The sound of a beeper assailed our ears. 

"It's trace. They've probably got a result from AFIS," I said, looking at the number on the small LCD screen. 

Catherine glanced from me to Doc, and I knew what she was thinking. It's time to cut. 

Somehow, it annoyed me. They didn't think I could take it. "I'll go see what they've got." 

"You'll miss the fun," Catherine put in quickly, apparently trying to make up for what she'd just done. 

"That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make." 

I left the room, and didn't look back. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: I soooooo loved writing that flirty scene. What's Greg's problem? Wait and see. And the reason for the, umm, *cough cough* conversation is probably because I just finished a "Health" class. I think I'm scarred for life. And, guys? I don't really know how it feels to have someone come onto you, especially not a girl, obviously. I confess. I am also just realizing how much of this chapter dealt with sex… 


	4. Lacrimoso

A/N: So… I don't own 'em. Lacrimoso means "sadly". Here it's referring to the mood of the characters. That's all. 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
4: Lacrimoso 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

"Kasey Kinsey, age twenty-seven. What a name. No listed family. Worked as a waitress. Poor girl," Mandy said, handing over several printouts. 

"In more ways than one." I flipped through the papers. "Wow… She was a saint. No arrests or anything. No record of even a parking ticket," 

"Her fingerprints were added to AFIS because of a safety thing at one of her previous jobs." 

"I just don't see how she got by without a ticket, that's all." 

After a pause, Mandy nodded slowly. "Makes me realize how dangerous it is…" 

"What?" 

"Everything," she sighed. "There _is_ no safety zone." 

"Yeah," I replied. "Life's not like games in P.E." 

I thanked her and left. 

And ran into Abbie. 

"Hey, hi," she said. "I was looking for you." 

_I bet you were,_ I thought irritably, forcing myself to keep my gaze above her neck. 

What I said was, "Results?" 

"Some. We've got blood that's not the vic's – I'd guess she took a swing at him. Gave him a bloody nose, from the looks of things." 

"We know for sure it's a him?" 

She handed me a folder. 

"Yup. Oh, and we know something else, too – he's HIV positive." 

What? 

Abbie kept talking for a second, but I didn't hear. For a moment, everything went fuzzy and my conscious mind was pushed aside by shock. 

"—Greg? Greg? Earth to Greg?" 

"What?" 

"I was just asking if you wanted to come to this club I go to sometimes." 

"Oh." 

"With me." 

"Oh." 

"Saturday." 

"Oh." 

"And, well, after that…" 

I blinked and shook myself. 

I opened my mouth to say "yes". 

"No, sorry, Abbie, I can't." 

Her shoulders relaxed and her mouth twisted into an irritated pucker. 

I turned and walked away. I saw her determined "I'll-get-you-yet" look in the reflection on the trace lab window. 

I shook my head as I rounded a corner and entered the break room. 

"I hate this," I grumbled. 

"Hate what?" said Nick from his place, raiding the refrigerator. 

For a second, I considered telling him. 

A second. 

"Nothing your primitive mind would understand," I blew him off. 

"Ah. You don't wanna talk about it. Okay…" He wrinkled his nose at the contents of the appliance. "Bleach." 

"I know. Some of the stuff in there is disgusting." 

"No, I mean, _bleach_. This stuff smells like bleach. I'm not even going to think about what might have spilled all over my teriyaki shrimp leftovers." 

Nick shut the door with a sick look on his face and flopped onto one of the lounge's couches. 

"So. What sort of case did you get for a first homicide?" 

I shook my head, getting a Styrofoam cup and filling it with some of the coffee-colored slop that had probably been brewing for a few hours. Or days. Maybe weeks, no one quite knew for sure. 

If I hadn't been so dead tired all of a sudden, I'd have broken into my stash of the expensive stuff. 

"I'd rather not talk about it," I said, sitting down across from Nick. 

He nodded. "I get ya. My first wasn't pretty either. It looked like a suicide, and it wasn't nearly as bad as a beat… ing… um…" 

I sighed. "I'm not going to ask how you found out." 

Nick looked uncomfortable. "It, umm, well, it was a hanging. Turned out to be an accident – scarf caught on…" He trailed off. "Anyway, it was bad, but it wasn't that bad, and I reacted like that, too. Don't worry about." 

"Right. I've heard things, too – accidents are worse than murders. You know, no one to blame." 

He looked around, trying to seem innocent. "So..." 

"Hey, Nicky? Why did you become a CSI?" 

He looked a little surprised. 

"Why do you want to know?" 

I shrugged. 

"I guess… It's mostly because of my parents. My mom was a cop, dad was a judge. He didn't want me to deal with what she had to deal with; she didn't want me to spend my life sitting on a bench." 

"So it's a compromise." 

"Yeah." 

I thought for a moment. "That's not what I'd say. I'd say it's worse than either – you still have to deal with death, destruction, and grieving families. And you have paperwork." 

Nick grinned half-heartedly. It wasn't that funny – police offers have paperwork, too. 

I gave the "coffee" a dirty look. 

"This tastes like mud." I placed the hateful cup on the table. "So, what about you? What's your case right now?" 

"A guy who was found in his apartment. Beaten—" Here I huffed, wondering again how he'd found out about my case if Cath hadn't told him, which she wouldn't. "—with a flat instrument with a sharp end. Funny thing is, there's a girl in the same building who's been missing for three – well, no four days, actually. No one reported it or anything, but…" 

That woke me up like a shot of caffeine. 

"Missing?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Flat instrument, sharp end?" 

Nick blinked. 

"I think you'd better put a rush on your tests." 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: Whew! Look at that! Four chapters! And a sorta kinda cliffhanger. Sorta. Kinda. 


	5. Quasi Recitavio

A/N: Don't own 'em, quit rubbing it in. _Quasi recitavio_ means "like a recitation". And I accidentally messed up my "Hunger Artist" tape today. I was adjusting the tracking because it was getting fuzzy and I managed to hit a button that made the sound from the news channel record, but not the visual. So I've got Grissom telling Sara about Iraq instead of the daybook's code. It's actually kinda funny. 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
5: Quasi Recitavio 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

"She lived in the building next to where she was found?!" 

Catherine gaped at the apartments in front of us. 

"Yup," I said. 

"And no one bothered to question the occupants or anything?" 

"I think they all claimed not to have heard anything. No one asked them if they knew the vic." 

"How stupid. I know that. I do." Catherine shook her head and pushed the front door open, revealing a smoky lounge-like corridor. 

"It just gets me when it takes so long to get to such a stupid conclusion." 

"You told Nick to call when the results came in, right?" 

"Yeah. That poor lab tech in DNA is pulling double shifts for this." 

I nodded, not only because I knew very well how it felt to pull a double, but also because I was thinking more and more about what it could mean if those results came back with a "yes, these cases have the same non-vic DNA at the scene." 

"Hi, Cath. Greg." Sara entered the room. 

"Hey, Sara. You wanna go out for a drink after we process the apartment?" 

"Nope." 

"Didn't think so." 

Catherine rolled her eyes. I know, I know, the crush was old and basically over with. After three and a half years it had become more of a game than anything real for me to flirt and Sara to brush me off. I doubted she'd ever really noticed anyway. 

That was fine by me. I didn't need any more girl problems. 

But, boy, would _she_ be a great problem to have, or what? 

"You just show us where it is, Sara." 

"Right. Your case, not mine. Yet, at least." 

"Nick called you?" Catherine wasn't surprised. 

"And Grissom, who was not happy that you didn't go to him first." 

"We were getting there," I put in as Sara unlocked the door. 

"Sure." 

"You're handling that key without gloves." 

"Don't worry, it's been fingerprinted already. Landlord gave it to me, and I didn't feel like waiting." 

"Anything to keep you out of trouble," Catherine quipped. She pulled her flashlight from her belt. "Ready, Greggo?" 

"Ready." 

Sara handed me the key. "Good luck. If you find anything that has to do with one 'William Lucas', come get me." 

"Who?" 

"My vic. I'll be across the hall in apartment fifty-four, asking the guy who found him a few more questions." 

"At this time of night?" 

"We called ahead. The guy's working second shift, so he hasn't been home all that long." 

I grinned, dropping the key into my pocket. "I'll knock three times and wait for you to let me in." 

Sara rolled her eyes and started to leave. 

"You're supposed to say 'not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin'." 

"Greg, I _have_ no hair on my chinny-chin-chin. So, get help Cath." 

"Fine." 

I turned and entered the apartment. 

The moment I passed through the door I swear it got colder. I looked around suspiciously. Was I paranoid, or was something wrong? 

Hmm… 

Nothing out of place. In fact, it looked a little like my home. Carpeted living room/dinning room and tiny bedroom, even tinier kitchen and bathroom floored with linoleum. 

Basically, my place minus one cat, one PS2, and several dozen piles of dirty clothes. 

And yet it felt… wrong. Wrong to be there. Maybe it was just because I had an image of the tenant, dead, that suddenly flashed in my mind. 

It felt so wrong to be in the personal space of a murder victim. 

"Hey, Greg, are you coming?" 

"Huh? Yeah, I'm coming." 

"I'll get out ALS, you start on dusting." 

I nodded, knowing that I was being bossed around, but too disturbed to care. Besides, she knew better than me. 

The person who had slept, eaten, cried, wrote, thought, talked to herself, complained about work here had been murdered. Murdered by an HIV positive male. 

That snapped me out of my stupor. 

"Right," I said, more confidently than I felt, kneeling to pull the latex gloves and printing powder out of my evidence case. 

"Red or green?" 

"Sara would vote for green," Catherine said distractedly, swabbing something the alternate light source had made visible on the bed sheets. I could guess what, but I asked anyway. 

"What've you got?" 

"What do you think? I'm hoping there's some DNA left in the newer spots." 

"How many are there?" 

She counted. "Seven I see. Did someone else live here? Borrow it for a week? Kasey Kinsey was a saint." 

I smiled grimly at her recycling of my words. "You're right. I don't know. And there are prints all over in here. I don't think Kasey got out much." 

"Check the fridge." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Check for takeout and things like that. What sort of food a person keeps around can tell you a lot about them." 

"Why didn't this place get checked out sooner?" 

"Was she in the missing persons database?" 

"Umm… no. Well, Nick told me that her disappearance wasn't reported." 

"Not to the authorities. Guess she didn't have much in the way of friends." 

"She had a laptop," I noticed. 

"Go ahead." 

It was a very nice, expensive machine. Pentium 3 processor, CD burner, DVD drive built in, web camera nearby. 

I really wasn't feeling comfortable as I opened the computer and pressed its power button. 

And when I get uncomfortable, I babble. 

"Hey, Catherine, do you remember the case with the casino? The one where Detective Lockwood, umm…" 

"The Rampart ordeal," she said tightly. "Yeah?" 

"Oh, never mind." 

"You want to know the rest of it?" 

"I know that was off the record, and I wasn't going to say anything, but…" 

She nodded, carefully tucking away another swab. "I know what you mean." 

I waited as the Windows XP screen disappeared and the desktop loaded. It wasn't password protected. Good. I doubted I could have gotten up the indecency to break it. 

"I shouldn't have said it. Just forget about it." 

"Nope. You asked and now you're going to listen. How much did I tell you? It's been so long…" 

"You told me that Sam Braun and you mom – well – yeah." 

"And I went back to Montana from Seattle and my parents made it pretty clear I was on my own, so I went running to Sam in Las Vegas. That's where I met Eddie." 

"Right. That's it. You don't have to—" 

"Oh, shut up, Greg," Catherine said with a crooked half-grin and a trace of bitterness. "I've told you before, and I'll tell you again: I deal with things. I told you part of the story; you'd like to know the rest. That's normal. That's your investigative side. The short version: Braun is my biological father." 

I stopped right in the middle of opening the "My Documents" folder. 

I really didn't know what to say. 

"I've told you something revealing. You're supposed to tell me something – about your parents." 

I licked my lips and opened the file. She'd trusted me, and I wouldn't tell. I could trust her, she wouldn't tell, and she wouldn't feel sorry for me. 

"Okay. My parents were killed when I was fifteen." 

There. I'd said it. 

It felt like I was reciting something I'd memorized, but I'd said it. 

I opened a file. 

Apparently, Catherine didn't know what to say either. 

I read a few lines of the text document. 

"Hey, this is fiction. It's a dark and stormy night, and we have a runaway." 

Catherine approached, slightly tense. "Yeah. This girl was an author." 

I squinted at the screen. "I had a sister who wrote sometimes. She liked to name her characters after real people. Promised she'd put me in a story someday." 

"So?" 

"This girl, the runaway… she's thinking about her boyfriend. Look at his name." 

"Billy," Catherine read. "And Billy is short for William. Circumstantial. Could be coincidence, could mean she just liked his name." 

"Could be." 

Catherine's cell phone rang. 

There were results. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: Tada! Wow, look, that was _long_. The Rampart thing was sort of spontaneous. I know what Greg's going to share with and learn about the others, but I don't know when. And I will be dragging Warrick and Gris into this soon, don't worry. The chapter title, _quasi recitavio_, "like a recitation", is supposed to refer to the tones of Catherine and Greg during their talk. 


	6. Segue

A/N: Let's see… insert disclaimer here… insert witty comment here… _segue_ means "go on with what follows"… 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
6: Segue 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

I knocked three times on the door. 

It opened and Catherine took over. 

"Catherine Willows, Greg Sanders, Las Vegas Crime Lab." 

The man who answered the door looked like he worked out about ten times as much as Nick and was at least six feet tall. Taller. The long-sleeved shirt he wore was tight enough to show off the fact that he could probably pummel me into the ground and have enough energy left over to do several hours worth of victory dances over my crushed skeleton. 

Gulp. 

"Again? Your friend is already here." 

Sara peaked around him. She'd been there the whole time, but the witness took up the entire doorway. 

"Can we come in?" Catherine shouldered her way past. Obviously, the idea of entering that apartment didn't appeal to her, but the idea of Sara being there alone appealed to her even less. 

I agreed. First witness, first suspect. 

"This is Ted Samson, the man who found William Lucas's body," Sara told us. 

"Do we need to go through the whole story again?" said the guy. By his tone, I guess the second crime scene looked a lot like mine. 

"No. Just give me a second." 

Sara, Catherine, and I stepped into the hallway, Samson giving us a suspicious look from the doorway. 

"What?" 

"We found a reference to a 'Billy' in one of Kasey's computer files." 

Sara gave me an incredulous look. "And…?" 

"And what?" 

Catherine rolled her eyes and gave Sara a rundown of the important stuff. "We've got some swabs and fingerprints to compare with your vic's. Nick just called – there was blood at both scenes that didn't match either vic, the nosebleed, on a lamp, and on a table, and some dried flakes of blood that match up with Kasey's was found in a few of William's wounds. Same instrument, not cleaned in between uses. Larry in trace made a tool mark match." 

Sara nodded, absorbing this information. "Right. I'll see if Mr. Samson here would like to volunteer a DNA sample – just to rule him out." 

"Okay. Greg, take the swabs and prints back to the lab." 

"What? Where are you going?" 

"Nowhere. That guy makes me nervous." 

"You too?" Sara grumbled. 

"At least we agree. I don't like him – or I do, depending on how you look at it." 

"Don't jump to conclusions, Greg," Catherine said. "We can handle ourselves. Yes, I'm sure. Besides, you're no help, _I_ could kick your can." 

"Gee, thanks." 

-*-*-*-*-*-

I peeked around the corner into the DNA lab. 

I'd rather face Vincent than Abbie any day. 

"Hey, got a few swabs from the vic's apartment that need to be run." 

Vincent looked up. He still had the same jealous jerkface expression as he had way back when I'd first been in the field, with the bus case. Another thing I prefer not to think about. 

"We're still working on what you brought in before." 

"Put a rush on these. Sara or Catherine might bring in one that needs to be compared with the unknown from the scenes." 

Vincent huffed. "How many are 'these'?" 

"Seven, okay?" 

"Fine." 

"Hey, I know how it feels. But everyone here really does appreciate what you do." 

"Right." 

"_Right_." 

"They never show it." 

"I'm trying." 

He snorted and I gave up with a sigh. 

As I was leaving the lab, I heard the second pair of doors down the hallway open and Vincent telling someone, "Hey, you just missed your boyfriend." 

I could guess who that was. 

Crossing to the trace lab, I called, "Mandy, you here?" 

"I'm here. Can't move, I'm searching missing persons for Warrick's case." 

She was leaning in close to the screen, watching intently as the faces went by. Watching for someone that looked like… well, whoever she was looking for. 

"Sure. Okay, got a few fingerprints here from the vic's apartment." 

"Yeah, yeah, leave 'em on the desk and I'll put an intern on it." 

"Have fun." 

"Right." 

I left, running into the one person who I wanted to see less than Abbie. 

"Sanders," scoffed Ecklie. 

"What're you doing here?" The words just fell out of my mouth. 

He sneered slightly. Slightly for Ecklie. "Your shift ends in fifteen minutes. Guess what? My shift starts then." 

"_Fifteen minutes_? Time flies when you're solving murders." 

He didn't laugh. I looked around nervously. 

"I'm going to see Grissom," I said, slipping away with my best cheesy grin. 

I felt Ecklie's glare burning into my back as I pushed open the door to Grissom's office. 

The formaldehyde-preserved pigs and pinned bugs greeted me. 

Whew. 

I shut the door and exhaled noisily. 

"That guy is worse than Grissom," I said to the tarantula on the shelf. 

"Really? I didn't think anyone was worse than me." 

Grissom was at his desk, signing something. 

"Sorry, I didn't know you were in here. Just trying to get away from Ecklie. The guy hates me." 

"You're not the only one." 

I cracked the door and peeked out. The dread dayshift CSI was still there, talking to someone in DNA. 

Ecklie, Abbie and Vincent. My three least favorite people. 

"It's like an 'I Hate Greg Sanders' convention out there," I grumbled. "Okay, maybe not 'hate'. Maybe 'feel strongly about'. That covers everyone." 

I turned and looked back at my supervisor, who seemed to be ignoring me. 

"You know, Gris, when it's a joke, you're supposed to laugh." 

No answer. 

"Grissom?" I approached the desk. "Hey, Gris, can you hear me? Grissom?" 

He snapped up. "What? Sorry, I didn't hear you." 

"Is paperwork that interesting?" 

A look passed across Grissom's face. It faded just as quickly and he said, "Yeah. Something about carpet beetles." 

"That report is about an _attempted_ murder." I half-grinned. "I can read upside down. Seriously. You couldn't hear me, could you?" 

Grissom crossed his arms, contemplating. Finally he said, "No." 

I removed a stack of entomology books from a chair, turned it around and sat. 

"Disease?" 

"Otosclerosis. Genetic. My mother had it." 

I blinked at him with a cocked head. Grissom is so weird. One moment, you don't exist, the next it's "If you need me, I'll be around." The man is a walking Rubik's cube. 

"Is that why you took that time off a few months ago?" 

"Yes. I had the surgery done." 

"And it didn't help?" 

"Some. It was too advanced to fix in one shot." 

"Will it be permanent?" 

"Maybe." 

There was a long silence. 

"I know how it feels." 

"What?" 

"For them not to be able to fix it." 

I was on the receiving end of the Grissom Look as I stood and crossed to the door. 

"Ecklie's gone, and shift's almost over. I'll see you tomorrow, or when my beeper goes off." 

"Right. Say hi to your cat for me." 

I smiled. "Sure." 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

A/N: Hmm, that was fun. I like Grissom better than I used to. I have a pretty good idea where I'll be going in the next chapter, and it won't be this long. My shortest chapter (as of yet) is 805 words, my longest is 1402. Weird. And I'd just like to say that I can't find my tape with "Play with Fire" on it, so I really don't have it for reference if I happen to mention it. I did, however, find "In the Box" and "Hunger Artist" (*giggle* see chapter five's notes). 


	7. Tempo Primo

A/N: I don't own CSI or its characters and the only people I've made up for this are the vics (Kasey Kinsey and William Lucas), the guy who found one of the vics (Ted Samson), and the flirty annoying lab tech (Abbie Talbot). And Miki the cat. And the people in chapter one Greg said "hi" to. There. My first _real_ disclaimer. _Tempo primo_ means "original tempo". If you recall, the first chapter's title was _adagio_, a slow tempo. _Tempo_ is speed of the music, by the way. 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
7: Tempo Primo 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

I walked wearily and warily from my car to my building. The sun was coming up. 

Bedtime for me. 

I looked around, increasing my pace. 

It was strange. Less than twelve hours ago, I had sauntered in the opposite direction, completely relaxed. After all, it wasn't like I lived in a bad part of the city. 

All the parts were bad. 

And now I had seen first hand what happened in the shifting shadows. 

I opened the door and climbed the stairs, feeling my consciousness already going into coma. 

Next thing I knew, I was at my door. I hadn't even gotten my key out, I was so tired. 

Coffee was wearing off. 

I unlocked my door, making a mental note to buy a deadbolt for it sometime tomorrow. 

I remembered my earlier "mental note", about the spider guts on my wall. 

Decided I didn't care. 

I relocked the door once I was inside. Kicked off my shoes, stumbled across the carpet and collapsed face first onto my bed. 

It had been a long day. Or night, however you wanted to say it. 

I felt a small vibration in the bed springs. 

A light tap on my cheek – the familiar sensation of a cat paw. 

"Hi, Miki," I said, reaching up and scratching her ears without opening my eyes. 

"Mee?" 

"Yeah, it wasn't much fun at all. I got my first homicide." 

"Rroow." 

"Yeah. It wasn't pretty. I've been shoving it to the back of my mind all day." 

Or night. Whatever. 

Miki started to purr. I took her furry cat body into a hug and hid my face in her fur. 

"It made me sick. Literally. The vic had been there for a couple days. Just lying in an alley. Remind me never to be murdered, okay?" 

Miki just kept purring. 

"She was twenty-seven. I'm only twenty-eight. She didn't even live as long as I have. And the case is linked with another murder – another beating – with some DNA from what we think might be the murderer." 

Miki made a tiny squeak in her throat. 

I groaned as I rolled over, pulling Miki with me. She took up residence on my chest, kneading the collar of my shirt. 

"I've been talking to the others about certain things. I guess I never realized that they had issues, too." 

Miki licked my chin. I looked at her, into her blue feline eyes. She looked back intellectually. 

"I know. I've gotta go get clean." 

"Mrr…" 

"And feed you." 

She used me as a springboard to hop off the bed and trot toward the kitchen. 

The kitchen that looked almost identical to Kasey Kinsey's. 

I shook it off. 

I set out Miki's dish again. With the medication. I sighed and dumped three different pills into my hand. 

"You know, Mik, sometimes I really with I could drink." 

She stopped crunching her dinner (or breakfast) and looked up at me. 

"Yeah, I know. You probably wish the same thing sometimes." 

The cat rubbed her cheek against my ankle. Like I've said, I'm convinced she understands me. 

I poured a glass of tap water and used it to take the pills. 

"I've told you before: No pity parties." 

Miki gave me her cat version of a smile and padded back to her bowl. 

I sat on the stool by my counter. 

"I can handle it though, Mik. Don't think I can't." 

She didn't look up. Didn't even stop eating. But I understood, loud and clear. 

_I know._

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: Look at this – it's so short! Barely 700 words! Sheesh! And no story development. Just angst. Hmph. Oh well. And a cute kitty. 


	8. Impetuoso

A/N: I don't own CSI or anything. Name your price. Ha. _Impetuoso_ means "impetuously". And, wow, this is chapter eight! Eight! Wowser! 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
8: Impetuoso 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

I got to work the next day, putting on my best poker face. It hadn't affected me. It hadn't affected me. 

Just keep repeating that. 

My first stop was the DNA lab. Big mistake. 

"Any results?" I asked as I came in. 

Abbie (dressed much the same as the day before) turned and smiled. "Yeah. A couple people left some reports here for you – phone records and family contacts, I think." 

"Or lack of," I said, looking at the numerous calls for takeout and the absence of any family. 

"Some DNA matches came out this morning. The blood at both apartments, taken off the edge of a table and the base of a floor lamp? It's Samson's. What we thought came from a nosebleed you're your scene? Samson's." 

"Well, _that's_ interesting. We'll see what he has to say about the rest of this," I said carefully. 

"The samples from the bed are being run right now. Ecklie pushed some of this stuff ahead of them." She handed me the report. 

I rolled my eyes. "Of course. When they come, call me or Cath, okay? Thanks." 

She looked a little surprised. "Yeah, any time." 

I started to walk out of the lab, relieved that the girl had been civil this time. 

"Greg, hold on." 

Hoo, boy. 

"What?" 

Apparently, business was out of the way. 

Abbie crossed her arms and looked at me out of the top of her eyes. 

I really, really hate that look. 

"Greg, do you have some sort of problem?" 

"Problem? Me? No, I just have to go show these results to Cathe…" 

She took a step closer to me. 

A little too close. 

"…rine…" 

"C'mon, you wanna go somewhere after the shift gets over?" 

"Umm… umm…" 

"Is that a yes?" 

"That's a no." 

"But when guys say no, they really mean yes..." she cooed, taking another step. 

Now I know why they call it "bending your will". 

"No, we don't." 

"Is that a 'yes', too?" 

"Nope." 

"Yup." 

Yessir, that will was almost doubled over now. 

"Look, Abbie, I have my reasons—" 

I was cut off by a sudden version of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. 

So much for civil. 

The crazy thing was, just for a second, I was kissing her back. 

_What?! _

What the hell are you doing, Greg?! 

I pulled away. 

"Greg? What is your deal?" 

"Look, Abbie, you've got to back off." 

"_Why_?" 

I shook my head. "Just forget about it, okay?" 

"Is that it, huh? You can flirt all you want, but if a woman makes a move, it's 'oh no, not too close now'." She glared at me. "You men are all the same." 

"Yes, we are. And yes, that's it. That's all." 

Abbie blinked fiercely. "Then I'm sorry I even tried." 

"Me, too. Go talk to Archie or something, okay? He's the one that needs it." 

Another blink, still angry. Then she nodded and backed off. 

For an uncomfortable minute, neither of us said anything. She fumed, and I felt guilty. 

I finally left, taking my report with me. 

"Whoa, Greg, for a second there I thought there was something burning in here – and it wasn't one of Gris's experiments." 

Coming down the hallway was Nick. 

Just what I needed. 

That was sarcasm. 

"What's going on with you and the lab tech?" 

"Nothing." 

"That didn't look like nothing to me." 

"You're right. It's less than nothing." 

He squinted at me like I was a piece of evidence. 

"Is there something wrong?" 

"Nope." 

"Liar." 

"Right." 

"What's up?" 

"I've gotta give this to Catherine." 

"Greg?" 

I stopped not far from the break room. 

"What's up?" 

"Nothing that concerns you." 

"Fine, we'll exchange information. I'm willing to tell you something if you'll tell me what your deal is." 

_Deal_. I hate that word. 

I didn't say anything. 

"I trust you. We all do. You're easy to trust." 

I looked away. 

"Why can't you trust us?" 

"You _don't_ trust me. You never did." 

"Look. I trust people. It's automatic. At least it used to be. I have to be that way now because that's how I am. Really. I have to try to be me." 

I stopped for a second. 

I brushed my index finger across a tiny white circle on the back of my right hand, the one holding the manila folder. My gaze traveled to a brownish line across the opposite wrist. 

That I didn't touch. 

I looked back at Nick suspiciously. He wasn't just trying to con information out of me, like some suspect, was he? 

Something told me he wasn't. 

"Why?" 

"I was raped when I was nine, okay?" 

I felt kind of numb at that. 

Seriously? 

No way. 

"Wow." 

"Now tell me what's wrong. There were sparks flying everywhere in that lab, and you pulled the fire extinguisher on them. So?" 

I chewed on my lip. "Fine. Once I was given a contaminated blood transfusion." 

Nick paused. "Contaminated?" 

"I'm infected with HIV." 

A longer silence. 

"Wow." 

"I've been seropositive for thirteen years." 

"Whoa." He thought for a second. "That's… That's pretty major. Why didn't you just tell us, though?" 

"Because I knew how you'd all react. You'll either go, 'Oh, poor Greggo' or you'll be afraid of me. There's something wrong with me, and that's how a lot of people see it." 

"How…?" 

"I live with it. Isn't that what you do?" 

Nick blinked. 

"That's why I was so mad about the incident with the mildew." 

Nick looked confused for a second. Then it dawned on him. 

"When Grissom 'infected you'?" 

"Yeah. It was so easy to catch it, and it took weeks to get rid of it. Had to schedule a bunch of doctor's appointments and everything. I wanted to say right then, 'Look, maybe your perp didn't get this, because…', but I couldn't." 

He looked back at the DNA lab, and then at me. 

"And that's why you wouldn't…" 

"I'm not going to give it to anyone else. That's one responsibility I don't want." 

"I'm sorry, man." 

"Please don't tell anyone, okay? I don't want your pity and I don't want anyone else's." 

"Right. I won't, you won't." 

"Right." 

"Yeah." 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: That's nice. Wee. My goal for now has been reached. Let's go catch a killer, what do you say? Ha. Still no Warrick, though. Sheesh. Sorry guys. Okay, _impetuoso_ ("impetuously") refers to Abbie's move on Greg (which was another scene that was again _very_ difficult to write, and yet _very_ fun), Nick's telling about his issues and Greg's admission about his HIV infection. Seropositive, by the way, means you're infected but don't show symptoms. 


	9. Trionfale

A/N: Let's see… I don't own CSI… I'm insane… _Trionfale_ means "triumphant", but this isn't the end, don't worry! There's just gonna be some story developing. 'Bout time. And I _do_ intent to drag Warrick in this, umm, next chapter. Sorry! 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
9: Trionfale 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

"Hey, Sara, we need to go back and talk to Samson." 

"Why?" 

I handed over the reports. "Haven't seen Catherine yet, but the blood on Kasey's lamp? Samson's. The blood on the edge of the table in Will's apartment? Samson's." 

She skimmed the papers. 

"All her calls are for takeout; she has no family whatsoever listed… Ah, here, DNA." 

Something jumped out at her. 

"HIV?" she asked. 

"What?" I yelped, snapping to attention. 

"Samson. He's got HIV." 

"Oh. Right." 

I breathed. _Duh, Greg, of course. The murderer was a positive, remember?_

"I'm liking him for this." 

"Me too. That's why we're taking Warrick." 

"Huh? Why?" 

"Greg, Samson is over six and a half feet tall." 

"Am I not man enough for ya?" 

"Greg, you're not man enough for a termite," Sara laughed. "Besides, Nick's busy in trace, checking the suspected weapons. Grissom's pushing the paper. And Warrick ended up with that case with the little rich runaway. Give me a good murder over a spoiled kid any day." 

I wasn't sure I agreed. I wasn't sure she agreed, either. 

"Okay. You go show this to Cath, see what she says. I'll find War." 

Sara nodded. 

She started to walk past me. I stopped her and said, "Hey, Sara, I've been working on my profiling – am I right if I say you're an only child?" 

"You're right," she said distractedly, scanning the report some more. 

"And there was a problem with your relationship with at least one of your parents." 

"Look, Greg, I don't wanna talk about that." 

"That's a yes. Okay, were you an outsider in school?" 

She exhaled sharply. "I got all of my parents' maturity. It freaked the other kids out. There. Are we done? Because the sooner we get this guy, the better." 

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. See you in, what, fifteen minutes?" 

"I'll drive." 

We took off in opposite directions. 

"Oh, hold on!" I turned to walk backwards. 

"_What_?" she barked, glaring over her shoulder. 

"I've been meaning to tell you: I've decided that chess and sex are not sports!" 

Sara looked puzzled for a second, then grinned. She looked back were she was going barely in time to evade Bobby on his way out of one of the labs. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

I happened to look into the layout room as I walked past. 

"Hey, Cath." 

"Oh, umm, hi, Greg." 

I looked at the photos on the board. 

I wished I hadn't. 

"Are those of the, umm, scene?" 

"All of them… Ours is on the left, the girl's apartment in the middle, the other scene on the right." 

I nodded and stepped up, steeling myself. 

"Is that the blood on the lamp and the table?" 

"Yeah." 

"They matched it to Samson – Sara's wandering around with the report, looking for you. They got a match on some of the blood in the alley, too." 

"Yeah?" 

There was silence. I decided I couldn't look at the pictures any longer. 

"So… do you have any advice for someone who got burned?" 

Catherine looked at me curiously. "All right, who did you come onto now?" 

"No, it's not me – it's someone else. A lab tech. I think she needs someone to talk to." 

She gave me a different look. 

"What did you do?" 

"Nothing. That's the thing." I stopped and glanced around nervously, searching for something to focus on. "She needs some advice." 

"Don't look back. That's what I say, about pretty much everything." 

I sighed and started to go. "Oh, another thing. I was talking to Grissom yesterday. I was wondering why he chose this job, but, well, I didn't want to ask." 

"Can't say I blame you. He takes some getting used to. Years of getting used to." 

"Well, can you tell me?" 

Catherine thought for a minute. 

"I think he does this because he couldn't do anything else. Gil by any other job description wouldn't fit. Putting him in another career would be like putting a snake on a bicycle. He eats, sleeps, and breathes criminology." 

"I'm surprised he doesn't choke." 

"Everyone chokes sometimes." 

"Anyway, I've gotta go find Warrick. You seen him?" 

"He walked that way a little while ago." 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: You know what? Gas pedals only need to be slammed down in the movies. If you do it in real life, your mom gets mad and grabs the wheel. You know what else? Brakes never work just the right amount. You know what else? I'm so short I can barely see to attempt to back up. Ha. Enough about my driving skills (or lack thereof). 


	10. Deciso

A/N: _Deciso_ means "decisively" or "firmly". Let's see… I don't own it, and that's basically all I've got to say. 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concert**  
10: Deciso 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

I found Warrick filling out a report in the break room. 

"Hey, Warrick, can I have some advice?" 

"From me?" 

He looked skeptical. 

Make that suspicious. 

"Yeah," I said innocently. "Would I ask you if I wanted, oh, say, Grissom's answer?" 

"Shoot," he said. 

"Well, there's this lab tech, this female lab tech—" 

"Sorry, no love advice. You want that, try Nicky." 

"No, I mean, I need help keeping this girl _away_ without hurting her feelings." 

Warrick stopped, gave me a look, and made a motion like he was cleaning his ear. 

"Sorry, I think I have waxy build up again – did you just say you want to keep her away?" 

"Yeah." 

"I thought you were the class flirt." 

"This ain't flirting, man." He gave me another disbelieving look. "I'd prefer if you didn't ask why. Just tell me how you manage to get the message across. If you don't, I'll have to go to Gris for help and you now what bad people skills he has." 

Warrick considered this for a moment. 

"The only advice I can give you've apparently figured out – to stay away. There's enough stuff in life with this job and all without love gumming up the gears." 

"Tell me about it." 

He gave me a curious look, but I didn't elaborate. 

"So?" 

"So stay away from it at all costs." 

"You sound bitter." 

"No kidding." 

By this time I wished I hadn't asked. 

"Okay, I really came to tell you that Sara wants you to come with us to reinterview the suspect." 

"What, you need a big strong man to stand up to him?" 

"No, we need someone who isn't afraid to have their arm broken by a guy twice their height." 

Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Try Nick." 

"Sara said he was busy in trace." 

"Gris?" 

"Sara said he was doing paperwork." 

"Aren't you going?" 

"Yeah, but Sara said I was a termite." 

"Did Sara also say to jump on one leg?" 

I grinned. "No, there was no 'Sara says' with that, so Bobby was out of the game when Sara ran into him." 

"What?" 

"She stepped on his foot." 

Warrick laid the paperwork on the table. "Okay, I'll go, just because 'Sara says' and I don't wanna be out." 

-*-*-*-*-*-

"Mr. Samson?" 

_Knock, knock._

"Hey, it's Sara Sidle from the crime lab again. Mr. Samson?" 

"Maybe he's not home from work yet," I suggested. 

"I called his boss. She said he called in sick today." 

"What does this guy do?" Warrick asked. 

"Construction," I said. 

"Construction?" Warrick repeated musingly. 

"Construction," Catherine confirmed. 

"Is there an echo in here?" I grinned. We were gonna get this guy. As soon as he opened that door… 

"Are you looking for Ted?" 

We turned. Behind us was the landlord – a short portly man – the one who had given Sara the key to Kasey's apartment. 

"Yeah." 

"He left several hours ago. Packed all his stuff into a bunch of bags and piled 'em into his truck and took off." 

"Took off?" 

"Hoo boy." 

"I'm calling Grissom," Warrick said, taking out his phone and moving out of ear shot. 

Sara turned to me. "I'll call in about a warrant for the apartment." 

"He vacated earlier, like I said," the landlord put in. "Turned in his keys and everything. It's mine again, and I'll give you permission." 

I raised an eyebrow. "_Forensics Files_?" 

"_Law and Order_. I'll get the key." 

He hurried off as Warrick returned. 

"Grissom's calling Brass about searching for Samson and putting a rush on all of the rest of the tests for this case – paternity, the semen stains – and Catherine and Nick are going to reconstruct the crimes." 

"When will they be here?" 

"As soon as they can be." 

I looked at Sara. The landlord came panting up the stairs, something dull silver in his hand. 

"I've (puff) got it…" 

"Good. Thanks. Hold on a second." She pulled on a latex glove on and took the key. "Better safe than sorry." 

"Right," Warrick said. "Greg, you need the reconstruction experience – ask Grissom to come help us, and you can go with Cath, okay?" 

_Oh, joy_, I thought. _Now I can't even process an apartment_. 

That didn't matter. That's what I told myself. Team. There's no "I" in team. 

Right. Time to go back to the alley. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: Dun dun dun! Hmm… I actually know what I'm going to do now. Poor Brass, I'm neglecting him… Oh well. He'll live, I'm sure. Ha. 


	11. Anima Soul

A/N: Look how far I am! This is chapter eleven, and I've decided there will probably be fifteen total. I don't own CSI or its characters, but I did make a few up. _Anima soul _means "with deep feeling". 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
11: Anima Soul 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

"How did she get into the alley?" I whispered. It felt wrong to speak any louder. 

Catherine thought for a moment, one hand across her stomach and the other holding her chin. 

"Greg, stand on the steps like you're going into the building." 

"Like this?" 

"Up one more. Okay." 

"She got home after Samson. Maybe he was waiting for her," Nick said from the top of the stairs. 

I took a step up. "So… What sort of relationship did they have?" 

"None as far as the other tenants know." 

"Stalking?" Nick suggested with a shudder. 

"If someone were stalking me, I knew it and they were standing on my doorstep... I'd freak." 

Catherine nodded. "I'd ask, 'What do you want?'" 

"He probably confessed his love or something," Nick grimaced. 

"So he comes closer and Kasey gets even more scared," I said, motioning to Nick to come down the stairs. 

"She runs away…" 

Catherine looked toward the alley. 

"How does she end up there?" 

"Well…" 

I took a breath and made a dash down the stairs. 

And promptly fell on my face. 

"Ouch!" 

"Greggy!" 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah, I'm…" I looked up. I was facing the alley. 

I pushed myself up on my knees. 

"She tripped on that –" I pointed at a large crack in the sidewalk. "– and got up, kept running." 

"Into the alley," Nick observed. 

"He scared her bad," I murmured. 

"Why would Samson confront her if he knew she would run away?" 

"He's a big guy," Catherine said, helping me up. "Kasey was probably a good foot shorter." 

"He knew he could catch her," Nick spat. 

"He could have caught her with a fifty-pound bag of cat food slung over his shoulder. But what did he use to kill her?" Catherine asked. 

I stepped into the alley again. 

"None of the stuff we found matched the tool marks." 

"Of course – he used it on William evening before last." 

I heard their conversation and shined my flashlight across the cement. 

It hadn't rained the night before. 

The blood was still there, in its paint-like pools. 

Nick gave me a funny took. "Greg?" 

"I think he brought it with him." 

"Why do you think that?" 

"I think he was planning this whole damn thing." 

"Don't jump to conclusions, Greggo." 

The ringing of a cell phone shook me out of my speculations. 

"Willows," Catherine said. "Results? Yeah? It matched the male vic? Right. Both of 'em. Sure. Thanks, Abbie." 

"What?" Nick asked. 

"A couple of the semen stains hadn't been cleaned out – they matched William. The paternity test? William was the father." 

"He may have been unemployed, but he had something to occupy his time," I grumbled. 

"Unemployed?" Nick repeated. "I forgot about that – Samson 'loved' Kasey. Kasey was pregnant. Sammy knew Billy wouldn't be able to support a kid." 

"Can you say 'motive'?" I agreed. 

"But how did he find out William was the father?" Catherine asked. 

"That's easy," said a voice. We looked up to see Grissom on the top of the stairs. He held up an evidence bag. "This is a key – to Kasey's apartment. He gets in, finds out. Maybe finds a journal we haven't yet." 

"The thick plottens." 

A beeper went off. Everyone else instinctively checked theirs – I remembered and looked at my own. 

"It's Brass," Grissom said. "They've probably got a lead on the guy." 

He looked up – past me. Squinted, first there, and then at me. A look of understanding came across his face (subtly, of course). 

I glanced casually over my shoulder. Catherine quickly looked away, trying to seem innocent. 

Right. 

It was that geek mind reading thing again. Usually it was Gris and Sara that did the 'Vulcan mind meld', but it looked like Cath had tried. 

"So, Greg, why don't you come?" 

See what I mean? 

Grissom began dialing what I assumed was Brass's number and started toward his Tahoe. 

"Why didn't he just call you? Like, on your phone?" 

"Maybe he's in a hurry." 

_Rubik's cube_, I thought with no humor whatsoever. 

"Can I drive?" I asked lightheartedly. 

"No." 

Sulkily I slid into the passenger's seat. 

"You know, it's dangerous to drive while talking on a cell phone." 

Grissom ignored me, started the engine and said into the phone, "Yeah, Jim, it's Grissom." 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: I'm just gonna end this now… Only FOUR chapters to go! I can't believe it! I know, you can't either. Heh. I drove again today. Let's not talk any more about that, okay? 


	12. Rinforzando

A/N: Guess what? I don't own CSI! Or its characters! Ha. _Rinforando_ means "reinforcing". 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
12: Rinforando 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

The Tahoe stopped outside of a twenty-four-hour convenience store. One of those where they've got everything – toothbrushes, snacks, rubber rats. 

Police car… 

Grissom put the vehicle in park and took the key out of the ignition. I opened my door. 

"Brass said Samson showed up here about –" He checked the car's clock. "—a half hour ago." 

"Buying what – gum to patch the roof of his car?" 

"Coffee." Grissom opened the door and walked in, almost shutting it in my face. He pointed at a TV monitor mounted on the wall. "That was tuned to the news, and Samson's picture flashed up just in time for the clerk to see it – but Samson had already left." 

"And you said there were no coincidences." 

"If it had been a coincidence, it would have come up two minutes sooner." 

"So, why are we here?" 

Grissom shook his head. 

"Gil," said Brass as we approached. With him were an officer and someone who appeared to be said clerk. 

"What are we supposed to do – dust for prints to prove it was him? Wait, maybe the surveillance tape—" 

"Greg. Please." Grissom looked back at the detective. 

Brass held up a piece of paper with a generic rubber glove wrapped around it. "No need. He's left you guys a note." 

Grissom took the note carefully, using the glove, of course, and unfolded it fingerprint-free. 

After a second, it became clear that he didn't intend on sharing. I leaned in to read over his shoulder. It was torn from a notepad – probably just one that had been handy to Samson, judging from the chicken scratch quality of the writing. 

_To the Las Vegas crime lab— _

Seems you've gotten to the media already. Fine by me. 

Knew you'd figure it out sooner or later. Too late, though, out of here. 

You can prove it too, I hope. Will be severely disappointed if you missed my blood on the table and lamp. Planned to blow it off as having stubbed toe – then I'd have left. Probably the nosebleed that gave it away. 

I've brought my medication with me. Not like I'll live very long anyway. 

She made some bad decisions. 

Oh well. Who hasn't? 

Come and get me. 

Ted. 

"This guy is nuts," I said. 

"Yes, he is." 

"He wants us to catch him." 

"Yes, he does. And it sounds like we were right in the motive department." 

"Yup. Looks like he planted the blood, too." 

"Not in the alley. That's the nosebleed." 

Grissom looked the message over again. 

"Medication?" 

I swallowed uneasily. "The guy is HIV positive, remember? If his t-cell count is low or he started treatment earlier, he'll have dozens of pills and stuff to take like every hour." 

"How do you know so much?" 

I didn't answer. I probably should have made up something about doing a report on it in college or something, but I didn't. I didn't say anything. 

I hate it when I don't say anything. 

I hate not knowing what to say. 

"And I turned around, and, like, this guy was like gone!" 

The clerk had turned up the volume. By the looks of the unnamed police officer listening to him, it wasn't the first time he had told the story, nor the first time he'd got louder. 

I looked at Grissom. 

"We should bag this, right?" 

"Just in case. Maybe it'll give us some sort of clue as to where he's been or where he's going." 

I nodded and set my case on the counter, opening the top and removing an evidence bag. 

"We'll get him, won't we?" I asked. 

"Of course we will," he said unconvincingly. 

"Right." 

I held the bag open and Gris dropped the letter into it, still unfolded for reading without cutting the bag. 

We talked a little with the clerk – he made me want to ring his neck, he said "like" so many times – before heading back to the Tahoe. 

"Can I drive this time?" 

Grissom gave me his "I'm amused. Really" look. 

"Do you have a lead foot?" 

"No." 

"Can you steer?" 

"Enough." 

"Parallel park?" 

"I avoid that. C'mon, I've had a license for ten years. Please?" 

"Fine. Just quit whining." 

I grinned and opened the driver's door and Grissom went around to the passenger's. 

"I thought you were twenty-eight." 

"I am." 

"Then that would be twelve years. Sixteen to twenty-eight." 

I buckled the seat belt. "I didn't get it until I was eighteen." 

He didn't ask why and I was relieved. More or less. It just would be nice if someone would ask. I would spill it, I know. It would feel better. 

Maybe 

"Okay. Let's see what we can do with this note." 

I sighed and turned the starter. 

Even though I was relieved, it would be nice if someone just asked. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: I'm taking driver's ed, in case you forgot, and that's where the inspiration for that last bit came from… Yeah. So. Almost done. 


	13. Piangevole

A/N: Look at this! Chapter THIRTEEN! Wow! Whoa, that's a good feeling. So, I don't own any of the CSI characters or anything. Too bad. I'll have to kidnap them. Heh. Piangevole means "plaintively". 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
13: Piangevole 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

It got very, very quiet. 

"We can get this guy. He wants us to get him," Nick said. 

"He wants us to know it was him," corrected Grissom. 

"Nobody wants to get got," Sara scoffed. "This guy is insane. In a sane sort of way." 

"That makes sense, in a senseless way," Nick put in. He looked at the note (bagged) in the middle of the layout room table. The photos were still up behind us. 

"'Not like I'll live very long anyway'? There's a good attitude," Warrick scowled. 

I glared at him. 

_No, don't do that._

He doesn't understand. None of them do. 

The guy had run away. 

I can understand that. 

No excuse for murder, though. 

"'Come and get me…'" Catherine read. "Is he serious?" 

"He's teasing us," Grissom said. 

"We don't have a murder weapon," Nick pointed out. 

"Maybe he's got it with him…?" suggested Sara. "Like a prize?" 

"Or he's gonna use it again." 

"Gruesome Grissom," Catherine said disgustedly. "This guy is sick." 

"Okay, so, one more time," Nick said. "What happened?" 

"Five days ago Samson murdered Kasey," Grissom started. "Chased her into the alley." 

"And two days after that, he murdered William in his apartment," Catherine continued. "We think he got in with the 'pet needs in' excuse – William's cat had the run of the place. Went in and out whenever there was someone to open the door." 

I thought about Miki. Even if my building had allowed her to run around the hallways, I couldn't have let her. FIV is contagious. More contagious than HIV. 

Still, it was another reason I was like her. 

"So he used the same weapon. Both bodies were discovered yesterday, but no connection was made until Greg and I were talking in the break room," Nick added. 

"And Samson's blood was obviously left by him in both apartments," Warrick analyzed. "And interpreting from this letter, he had some B.S. story all made up about stubbing his toe." 

"Part of his 'catch me if you can' bit," Catherine said. "We were supposed to try to prove him wrong." 

"Except Kasey gave him a bloody nose in the alley." Sara paused. "Why did he go ahead and leave the blood in the apartments if he did that? Why go to the extra trouble? And pain?" 

"The blood was already in Kasey's apartment and had been for a while. Or that's what viscosity told us," Grissom replied. "He probably sneaked it in there while 'visiting' with that key we found." 

"But why…?" 

"And what he did to one, he did to the other," Grissom finished. "They had to be even." 

"So, where did you get that?" 

"Speculation, Nick. It's just that he did several things the same – the same weapon, for one." 

"That's why he kept it," said Warrick, catching on. "He's compulsive." 

"The same thing over and over. You're probably right, Grissom. He might intend to use it again." 

"Gruesome Grissom meets Sick Sara," Nick said humorlessly. 

"So, motive. Jealousy," Catherine said. "Samson, being compulsive, was obsessed with Kasey. But Kasey was involved with William. She was pregnant." 

"Oh, and about the quote-unquote 'virginity' thing?" Nick contributed. "Well, it doesn't happen too often, but since we didn't find any sort of protection in either vic's apartment, we can figure their either had unprotected sex, or were just, umm, 'messing around' and didn't really…" 

"We get the picture," Sara interrupted. 

"Well, anyway, sperm can swim," Nick said, turning slightly red. Obviously this was not a topic he was enjoying. "It, umm, does happen. Get anywhere in the vicinity…" 

"So that would be motive," Warrick said, a little too loudly. "Boy gets girl, murderer wants girl, murderer kills boy and girl." 

I shook my head, speaking for the first time. "That's not all. Remember—" I took a deep breath. "—Samson is HIV positive. He knew he could never have that kind of relationship with Kasey." 

Nick gave me a look. I pretended the wrinkled note was extremely interesting. 

"Good observation," Catherine said, slightly suspicious. Or maybe it was my imagination. 

"I'm going to the little CSI's room," I said quickly, leaving abruptly without looking at them. 

For a few seconds, I was zoned out. Didn't pay any attention to where I was going. 

I wish I could just tell them. 

I wish they would just confront me and a say, "Yo, Greggo, what the heck is wrong with you?" 

They didn't. 

I realized I was back at my lab. 

It was empty. 

Thank God. I didn't think I could have taken Vincent's attitude or Abbie's come-ons, 

I leaned an arm and my forehead against the glass, swearing under my breath. 

"Hey, Greggo?" 

I didn't look up. 

"Go away, Nick." 

"No." 

"Dammit, Nick, go away." 

"_No_." 

There was a pause. 

"Don't breathe so hard – you'll hyperventilate." 

"Why don't you just—" 

"Greg, you are _such an idiot_." 

I glanced at my friend out of the corner of my eye. 

"Why?" 

"You think we'll hate you if you tell us. You don't trust us. Well, you know what? _We trust you_. You don't have to suffer by yourself. I don't. Cath doesn't. Even Warrick doesn't to an extent." 

There he went with the trust thing again. 

I glared at my reflection in the window. 

"Someone… someone the other day told me I was like Grissom." 

"You are." 

"I know." 

There was a pause. 

"We won't get him." 

"We _will_." 

"We won't. All he has to do is get out – it's not like he can't do it." I stood up straight. It was painful. "Just wish I knew why people do this." 

"What? Murder?" 

"No. Well, I mean, that too, but…" I looked down. I was shaking. I continued, even though my voice sounded pathetic and plaintive again. "I mean this. This job. Why do we do it if… if it hurts so bad?" 

Nick thought for a minute. 

"Well, not to let Grissom think for me or anything, but he says that we're the 'victim's last voice'." 

"'Last voice'," I repeated. 

"Yeah. If we can't look at the evidence, if we can't help it speak… We are the last chance for justice. The last voice." 

I blinked. 

Last… voice? 

"Holy—" 

"What?" 

"Last voice! Of course!" 

I slapped my forehead. 

"Nick, I think I know where we can find proof for our theory. From Kasey herself." 

"_What_? Where are you going?" 

"Back to the apartment!" 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: The next chapter has the _climax_, everyone! Write that, write the last one, and I'm _done_. Done! And I can start on a sequel – I mean, umm… Ya'll didn't hear that, okay? 


	14. Calando

A/N: It's the next to last chapter! I didn't really think I could do it! Well, probably shouldn't talk until _after_ it's done. So. I don't own CSI or the CSI characters. I think I'll kidnap them for a while, ransom them with some reviews, and return them (relatively) unharmed. _Calando_ means "increasing in tone and speed". 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
14: Calando 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

"Just wait here. I'll beep you if I need you." 

Nick shifted the Tahoe into park. "Yeah. Go ahead. What gave you your idea, though?" 

"Samson needed something to tell him Kasey was pregnant – something that he could just find in her home. Like a journal, Grissom said. Besides, I kept one when I was in therapy." 

"Therapy?" 

I started to get out and stopped. 

"Hey… I have a quarterly check-up next Friday, but my car's going in to be serviced at the same time. Do you think I could get a ride from you?" 

He blinked and nodded. 

I shut the passenger side door, setting my sights on the apartment building in front of me. 

Ignoring the alley. 

Pointedly. 

I didn't want to get into that again. 

I opened the door, taking the stairs two at a time. 

It was strange. All ready I felt uneasy. 

Maybe it was just because it was late and shadowy. 

Yeah, that was it. 

I arrived at Kasey's apartment, taking the key out of an opened evidence bag. 

I crossed the room determinedly. Don't be nervous. That's just stupid. 

_Pay attention to your gut!_ my subconscious warned. 

_Pay attention to your own gut_, I replied silently. 

"Okay… laptop, laptop, where art thou, laptop?" 

It was set up on the desk. I pushed the power button and waited as the Windows XP screen loaded and disappeared. 

Web camera. CD burner. 

Video diary. 

The desktop appeared. I clicked on the start menu, opening the CD files. 

Bingo. 

Fifty-seven files. The first – August 23 – I clicked on. 

Kasey Kinsey's face appeared. She looked the same, only without the fractured bones, bruises, or blood. 

This was her last voice. 

"Okay… I feel kinda stupid doing this, talking to my computer, but… well, I heard it helped you deal with things to keep a journal. I can't write worth anything, so I'm starting this thing. Umm… Nothing much happened today. I'm moving into the city tomorrow. I just don't think I can stand being here any longer – ever since Mom died. It's not hard to say, just hard to think about. Well, I just hope I don't turn out to be a compulsive gambler or something." 

I bit my lip and clicked on the next one. 

"Hey, it's me again… I'm adjusting to life here. Made a friend down the hallway – some guy named Ted. Six and a half feet tall, yeah. You get the idea." 

I shook my head and choose another file randomly. It was about six months ago. 

"Yeah, William and I have been dating for a while. It's great, but still makes me nervous. You now, I…" She blushed. "Yeah. You know. I wonder if anyone will ever see this. I hope not, I'd die of embarrassment." 

"That's not what you died of," I told her, choosing one from just a week before. 

"I really don't know what to do. I didn't think this could happen – I'm not even sure it did or anything. Should I go to the doctor? Maybe an anonymous clinic? I don't know… Should I ask William what he thinks?" 

She shook her head and shut off the camera. 

No more – I had to get back to the lab, anyway. 

I closed the folder and popped the CD out. 

Hopefully, there would be something on it about Samson's stalking. Maybe more about her relationships. 

I had stuffed an evidence bag into my coat pocket. I slipped the disk inside and sealed it. 

Archie would probably handle it. I'd help, of course. 

With a sigh, I turned and left the apartment, locking the door behind me and stepping over the newspaper on the welcome mat. 

When I reached the first stairs, a voice stopped me. 

"Mr. Swartz, Las Vegas crime lab, right?" 

I turned. "What?" 

It was a big, muscled guy, in jeans and a black t-shirt. Six and a half feet tall. 

Bandage on one arm, revealed by a t-shirt. 

Ted Samson. 

I let a couple choice words slip. 

"Now, no need for that." 

My gaze traveled to what he was holding in his right hand. 

It was flat, curved, with a sharp end. 

The murder weapon. 

"A _crowbar_?" I said, with far less fear that was creeping into my stomach. "You used a _crowbar_ to kill people?" 

"They weren't _people_. They were under me." 

"Well, there's your problem. They didn't agree." 

"I don't suppose you do?" 

"That I'm 'under you'? Less than you? Hell no." 

"What did I say about your language?" Samson took a couple steps. 

I involuntarily moved back. 

"I'm a dying man, Mr. Swartz." 

"Sanders." 

"My last t-cell count was a hundred and thirty. Do you now what that means?" 

"It means you have AIDS." 

"Very good." 

He took a couple more steps and I prepared to run. 

"It's a death sentence." 

"No it's not." 

"Really? And you're an expert?" 

"No." 

Samson grinned. It was not a sane grin. "You're a positive, too." 

"Yes." 

"Six years." 

"Thirteen." 

"Thirteen?" he repeated. "Impressive." 

"Lucky." 

"Luck would be not getting it in the first place." 

I felt my heart pounding in my throat. 

I was trapped in a stairwell with a serial killer. 

I was at the bottom of the steps, on a landing. Only two flights to go before the door. 

Could I make it? 

I doubted it. Samson was almost a foot taller than me. He could have still outrun me if he'd had a fifty-pound bag of cat food stung over his shoulder. 

Did _that_ sound familiar or what? 

I pulled my cell phone out. 

Samson lunged. 

Before I knew what had happened, I was ducking a blow from a blood-stained crowbar. 

I yelped as it connected with my left arm. A sickening _crack_ filled my ears and fire spread from the fracture. 

Adrenaline took over and I jumped back. I tripped. 

I was _going_ to be _murdered_. 

I had a sudden flash of my friends processing the scene. It looked suspiciously like the alley, with a different background. 

Next thing I knew, I was down. 

_Get up, get up, get up, you idiot!_

I had to get up. 

I was _not_ going to just lay there and die! 

I looked up, in time to catch another blow against the side of the head. 

Stars flashed in front of my eyes and I hit the second landing. Hard. The wind was knocked out of me. 

There was a sudden pressure on my throat. 

It took my confused brain a moment to put it together. 

Kasey had been strangled. Manually. 

I gasped, but nothing reached my lungs. I forced my blurry eyes open. 

Samson, with one knee on my chest, the other on my broken arm (odd – it didn't seem to hurt right then), glared at me, a crazy glint in his eye. 

"Well, looks like you won't be getting me for this. Too bad. Checkmate." 

I wanted to swing at him. I wanted to break his face. 

How could I die like that – without putting a mark on him?! 

Wait. 

Where was the crowbar? 

Yes! There! 

It was in my right hand. How I got hold of it I don't know. 

It connected with Samson's skull. How I got the energy to swing it I don't know. 

My throat opened and a yelp assailed my ears. 

For a couple minutes I just breathed. 

Keep breathing. 

Don't black out. 

Samson was down, still breathing. 

Just unconscious. Too bad. 

Not checkmate. 

My cell phone had fallen nearby. I grabbed it and punched in Nicky's beeper number. 

That was it. 

And I don't remember any more. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: HA! Look at that, fourteen chapters, it's almost done, heck yeah! 


	15. Coda

A/N: Just to wrap up loose ends. Do I really have to tell ya'll that I don't own it? A _coda_ is a short passage added to the end of a piece to make a satisfactory ending. 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

**Last Voice: A Concerto**  
15: Coda 

-*-*-*-*-*- 

I slammed the door, using my right hand. My left was in a sling. 

It had been almost two weeks since we'd put Ted Samson – complete with a head injury – away. Two counts of murder and one attempted murder. 

Nick had gotten the page, entered the building and called 911. He beat himself up about it until I told him _I_ was going to beat him up if he didn't stop. 

I guess he reevaluated his "you don't trust us" bit after he found out I'd listed him and Grissom as next-of-kin. 

The hospital had released me in just a couple days. Very good, considering I was almost a vic. 

I sighed and let my head fall back. 

The car started and it was silent for a minute. 

"Greg?" 

"Yeah." 

I opened my eyes and avoided looking at Nick. 

"What's happening?" 

I swallowed. 

I didn't want to say. 

I didn't want to tell. 

No, please, don't tell him. 

"Do you now how they officially say if someone has AIDS?" 

"No." 

"Well, you've got your tests, and one of them is called a t-cell count. T-cells are what the virus destroys, and keeping track of how many are left is used to tell when to start treatments and things like that." 

I stopped. That was the easy part – I'd said it before. I'd probably say it again. 

"If your t-cell count gets below two hundred, they call it AIDS." 

Nick didn't say anything. With my peripheral vision, I saw him glance at me a couple times. Probably looking at the sling on my arm, bandage on my head and hand-shaped bruise on my neck. 

Fine by me. I'd almost been killed. Good of someone to notice. 

Truth was, I'd been dying for a long time. No one had noticed. 

It hadn't been obvious. 

Now I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. 

"And?" he asked cautiously. 

"And mine's two ten." 

The Tahoe pulled out of the hospital parking lot. I turned my attention outside the window, at the autumn afternoon that was bright in stark contrast to my dead emotions. 

"It's the other infections that kill you. The ones that come in because your body can't defend itself anymore. They're called opportunistic infections. And Dr. Bailey's going to start some aggressive treatments for me, you know, lots of pills and stuff." 

"Like you said?" 

"Yeah. Well, at least it lasted thirteen years." 

There was another pause. 

"I guess I was successful." 

"Excuse me?" 

I shook my head. "You don't want to know." 

"You obviously want me to know." 

I felt two things: 

One: Leave me alone, dammit. 

Two: Thank God, someone noticed. 

"Fine. My parents and one of my sisters were killed when I was fifteen. I was in foster care for two months. I…" 

I looked again at the transfusion scar on my hand. And at the mark across the opposite wrist. 

My voice dropped to a whisper. Like I was saying something dirty. 

"I tried to kill myself. I wasn't even sixteen yet. And that's when I got the transfusion. So I sorta consider it successful in a sick kind of way." 

Nick didn't say anything for a moment. 

"I disagree," he finally replied. "Until then, yeah, it is." 

"Until then?" 

"Yup." 

Just then, our beepers went off. I checked. 

"It's Gris," I said. 

"It's a love-hate relationship." 

"What? Grissom?" 

"Our job." 

"I love it." 

"Me too." 

Maybe after this next crime scene, I could go home and sleep. Spend some time with my cat. 

-*-*-*-*-*-

~ fine ~

-*-*-*-*-*- 

A/N: Yippee, I know. Wow. I'm in shock. I did it. I really did. Cool. Here goes a giant thank you to any of you out there who are going to click that little "review" button down there! 


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